“If you’ll tell me about a’ the wonderfuls you see, I’ll be gey glad to hear from you.”
“Then farewell, my love! Do not forget me!”
“It’s not likely I’ll forget you,” and her voice trembled, as she whispered “Farewell!” and gave him her hand. He stooped, and kissed it. Then he turned away.
She watched him till in the dim distance she saw him raise his hat and then disappear. Still she stood, until the roll of the carriage wheels gradually became inaudible. Then she knew that she was weeping, and she wiped her eyes, and turned them upon the light in the cottage burning for her. And she thought tenderly of her lover, and whispered to her heart – “If he had only come back! I might hae given him a kiss. Puir laddie! Puir, dear laddie! His uncle has heard tell o’ the fisher-lassie, and he’s ta’en him awa’ from Christine – but he’s his ain master – sae it’s his ain fault! Christine is o’er gude for anyone who can be wiled awa’ by man, or woman, or pleasure, or gold. I’ll be first, or I’ll be naething at a’!”
She found her father alone, and wide awake. “Where is Mither?” she asked.
“I got her to go to bed. She was weary and full o’ pain. Keep a close watch on your mither, Christine. The trouble in her heart grows warse, I fear. Wha was wi’ you in your hame-comin’?”
“Angus Ballister.”
“Weel, then?”
“It is the last time he will be wi’ me.”
“Is that sae? It is just as weel.”
“He is awa’ wi’ his Uncle Ballister, for a year or mair.”
“Is he thinking you’ll wait, while he looks o’er the women-folk in the rest o’ the warld?”
“It seems sae.”
“You liked him weel enough?”
“Whiles – weel enough for a lover on trial. But what would a lass do wi’ a husband wha could leave her for a year on his ain partic’lar pleasure.”
“I kent you wad act wiselike, when the time came to act. There’s nae men sae true as fishermen. They hae ane dear woman to love, and she’s the only woman in the warld for them. Now Cluny – ”
“We willna speak o’ Cluny, Feyther. Both you and Mither, specially Mither, are far out o’ your usual health. What for did God gie you a daughter, if it wasna to be a comfort and help to you, when you needed it? I’m no carin’ to marry any man.”
“Please God, you arena fretting anent Angus?”
“What for would I fret? He was a grand lover while he lasted. But when a man is feared to honor his love with his name, a lass has a right to despise him.”
“Just sae! But you mustna fret yoursel’ sick after him.”
“Me! Not likely!”
“He was bonnie enou’, and he had siller – plenty o’ siller!”
“I’m no’ thinkin’ o’ the siller, Feyther! Na, na, siller isn’t in the matter, but —
“When your lover rins over the sea,
He may never come back again;
But this, or that, will na matter to me,
For my heart! My heart is my ain!”
“Then a’s weel, lassie. I’ll just creep into Neil’s bed, for I dinna want to wake your mither for either this, or that, or ony ither thing. Good night, dearie! You’re a brave lassie! God bless you!”
CHAPTER V
CHRISTINE AND ANGUS
They did not separate, as if nothing had happened.
A sorrow we have looked in the face, can harm us no more.
Perhaps Christine was not so brave as her father thought, but she had considered the likelihood of such a situation, and had decided that there was no dealing with it, except in a spirit of practical life. She knew, also, that in the long run sentiment would have to give way to common sense, and the more intimate she became with the character of Angus Ballister, the more certain she felt that his love for her would have to measure itself against the pride and will of his uncle, and the tyranny of social estimates and customs.
She was therefore not astonished that Angus had left both himself and her untrammeled by promises. He was a young man who never went to meet finalities, especially if there was anything unpleasant or serious in them; and marriage was a finality full of serious consequences, even if all its circumstances were socially proper. And what would Society say, if Angus Ballister made a fisher-girl his wife!
“I wasna wise to hae this, or that, to do wi’ the lad,” she whispered, and then after a few moments’ reflection, she added, “nor was I altogether selfish i’ the matter. Neil relied on me making a friend o’ him, and Mither told me she knew my guid sense wad keep the lad in his proper place. Weel, I hae done what was expected o’ me, and what’s the end o’ the matter, Christine? Ye hae a sair heart, lass, an’ if ye arena in love wi’ a lad that can ne’er mak’ you his wife, ye are precariously near to it.” Then she was silent, while lacing her shoes, but when this duty was well finished, she continued, “The lad has gien me many happy hours, and Christine will never be the one to say, or even think, wrang o’ him; we were baith in the fault – if it be a fault – as equally in the fault, as the fiddle and the fiddlestick are in the music. Weel, then what’s to do? Duty stands high above pleasure, an’ I must gie my heart to duty, an’ my hands to duty, even if I tread pleasure underfoot in the highway in the doin’ o’ it.”
As she made these resolutions, some strong instinctive feeling induced her to dress herself in clean clothing from head to feet, and then add bright touches of color, and the glint of golden ornaments to her attire. “I hae taken a new mistress this morning,” she said, as she clasped her gold beads around her white throat – “and I’ll show folk that I’m not fretting mysel’ anent the auld one.” And in some unreasoning, occult way, this fresh, bright clothing strengthened her.
Indeed, Margot was a little astonished when she saw her daughter. Her husband had told her in a few words just how matters now lay between Ballister and Christine, and she was fully prepared with sympathy and counsels for the distracted, or angry, girl she expected to meet. So Christine’s beaming face, cheerful voice, and exceptional dress astonished her. “Lassie!” she exclaimed. “Whatna for hae you dressed yoursel’ sae early in the day?”
“I thought o’ going into the toun, Mither. I require some worsted for my knitting. I’m clean out o’ all sizes.”
“I was wanting you to go to the manse this morning. I am feared for the pain in my breast, dearie, and the powders the Domine gies me for it are gane. I dinna like to be without them.”
“I’ll go for them, Mither, this morning, as soon as I think the Domine is out o’ his study.”
“Then I’ll be contented. How are you feeling yoursel’, Christine?”
“Fine, Mither!”
“’Twas a grand ploy last night. That lad, Angus Ballister, danced with a’ and sundry, and sang, and ate wi’ the best, and the worst o’ us. I was hearing he was going awa’ for a year or mair.”
“Ay, to foreign parts. Rich young men think they arena educated unless they get a touch o’ France or Italy, and even America isna out o’ their way. You wad think a Scotch university wad be the complement o’ a Scotch gentleman!”
“Did he bid you good-by? Or is he coming here today?”
“He isna likely to ever come here again.”
“What for no? He’s been fain and glad to come up here. What’s changed him?”
“He isna changed.